Does Spider Have Ta-Tas?
by Coffin Liqueur
Summary: Husk/Angel Lime. "I got one question for you, stud... How does it feel havin' eight tits?"


Even Husk can't deny two things about Angel.

Granted, one of 'em is that the guy's a pain in the ass. (Shut up.) He hasn't heard anyone deny it yet - closest they've come is Charlie making excuses for it.

But the other one is that he's one hell of a guy to blow off steam with. As he shoulda expected from a pro, he guesses.

It's not a bad routine they've got goin' now. Shit starts winding down for the night, Angel comes scooting up to the bar, shoots Husk four finger-guns and a wink and an offer to buy the barman a drink. They down enough booze to pickle a horse, then they hit a couch, or check 'emselves into one of the many, many unoccupied hotel rooms, fling their heavy bones down, and sometimes, Husk ends up like this.

Flat on his back, wings outstretched and feathers splayed by the tickle of nerves that aren't always achin' in some way or another lighting up, and singing, and dancing.

While Angel runs one set of hands through the fur of his torso.

He drags 'em up. Sliding into a downward-dog kinda position from where he's got his knees straddled, until their faces are almost touching - Angel's smile all flashy-flashy and Husk's still stony, for the time being, trying not to look too much in case the fella starts too much talk. He pulls back, steaaaaadily dragging those hands back downward to smooth the tufts of fur he'd ruffled. A light hum begins to pick up concentration in eight little points down Husk's body. Angel slips his hands up that body again - fingers spreading to catch tufts of fuzz between them and leave room to press with the heel of his palm. Those little points of humming nerves become ones of held warmth . As Angel gives light, focused pressed drags with the tips of his fingers on the pullback this time, in Husk's head, they flash - that additional feel of a little flick and graze and focus and catch under those fingertips as his nipples start to harden.

...Those fingertips.

Might do good for Husk to ask for a plain ol' back rub one of these days.

Kid's got technique.

Husk's brow tenses for some kinda focus. Yeah. We're gettin' somewhere. He rumbles an approval, low in his throat. Not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Curmudgeonly acceptance.

His eyes flick up from where his chin's tucked low to his chest on catchin' Angel tossing out his hair. He bends back in without the massage. His hands come in reaching, fingers dancing in the air like he's offering a fuckin' tickle. He licks his lips; his second set of arms begin to lift at his sides.

Husk knows where this is going.

He shuts his eyes to just damn enjoy the ride.

One set of hands catches in his fur with an overhand push - no grab, no pull, but a simple cheeky feel-up - palms brush his top two nipples and catch on the firmness again, and Husk deepens his rumble, kept up more like a purr, as he feels the tips of Angel's forefingers trace clean, grazing outlines before pressing them flat on, joined by middle fingers, and rubbing. A massage again. All the while, two more hands catch him above the hips and slip upward to trace his chest before they slide in, fingers straight. On catching two more nipples, two fingers hold them in place with the gentlest pinch.

A sudden mild double-tweak.

Husk's rumble hitches into a sharp grunt. One of his legs lashes.

All he hears from Angel is a whispery, drawn "aaaaahhhhhhhh…"

Light but heady, clean but warm. A champagne fume sigh.

It wafts through the fur on the side of his stomach as it gets warmer, then hotter, then closer.

Husk again knows where this is going. His nose scrunches as he draws up air, back arching up - like he's windin' up to fucking huff and puff.

Something faintly cool grazes his skin through fur - just barely thinks to wonder when he's gonna get to see the guy hack up a hairball - before as if by some nip-suckin' sixth sense, Angel's lips seal tight around a fifth nipple and he begins to suck it as firm and fast and hard in a pullpullpullpullpull rhythm to match the speed he's hit their drinking contests. Husk's jaws snap open and fangs bare to the black gums. Angel tightens his grip on the two nipples he's tweaking; the fingers rubbing Husk's chest press harder. The air Husk had taken in ekes out vocalized as his throat unseals; he moans low, and rough, and arches up higher into Angel's movements as two more hands he hadn't seen the guy deploy come up to tickle little light circles around the two nipples above his hips. He breathes an almost-hollow sweeping "fuck" .

Those hips lash once sideways. Involuntary - a little static-jump between all seven sharp-illuminated burning points of stimulation.

Angel's knees come together on either side of his. Gettin' him pinned to the spot. To catch any other little jumps like that, Husk figures.

After one more flick and probe of the tip of his tongue, Angel's mouth detaches with a wet, kissy little snap. His hands slow to stops.

Husk opens one eye. Looks down himself. Sees Angel leaning up again, pushing his hair back. He opens the other and squints.

The fuck you stopping now for?

One long feathered brow arches.

Angel grins. His eyes flick down for a sec - Husk's do, too, to catch what he's lookin' at; he doesn't catch it before Angel's eyes are already snapped back onto his face and his grin is positively shit-eatingly bigger. His gold fang glimmers.

"I got one…" Angel starts. One of his brow lifts, and he leans in. His voice breezes and lowers out to that sultry shit again - that tone that smells like champagne - as he finishes, "...burning… - throooobbing question for you, stud ..."

Their faces are practically touching again. Husk cranes his neck back a bit. Angel's practically fuckin' lying on top of him this time, resting on his too-many elbows, face resting in two a' those masseuse hands. One more hand comes up to tickle him under the chin. Husk cranes back a bit further; one side of his scowl bends lower.

Don't break it up to get all fuckin' cute with me.

His eyes round a bit more as the scratching stops - they cross following the still-extended tip of that hand's index finger comes up to stop in spot just in front of his nose.

\- His pupils flick up on catching movement again. Angel tilting his head a little further into one hand. He raises that eyebrow a little higher. Casual and playful over a smirk.

His voice, likewise, loses its breathiness. It's its usual tangy and unctuous and bold and nasal.

"...How's it feel, havin' eight tits?" he asks.

Husk fully expects a flick on the nose or some bullshit like that. He flinches - and jumps at a flick with a hint of the force of nail at one of his nipples again, outta fuckin' nowhere . He bares his teeth, deepens the curve of his scowl.

As his eyes roll back up to Angel, following him as he pulls back again, the bottom drops out from under something that damn well is a growl - empties out the density until it's a simple guttural groan.

He cuts it off. Lets his lip line for a second.

"...How the fuck did it look like it feels?" he says, thickly.

Angel coughs out one small, dry, "heh". His hair falls in his eyes as he straightens, knees to back, arms getting to work again in movements like they're dancing around a master.

"Lemme tell ya something," he says. "If there's just one thing about this body that ain't fuckin' flawless…!" Two topmost arms cross in the air above and behind his head as the other two feel at his sides, tug at his clothes. "...it's that sometimes, I sure do miss havin' nipples. Guess that gettin' sent here did come with a punishment, and that's a hundred percent that I didn't get to be a cat, or somethin'. Like you!"

Angel lifts his head - his smile oddly plain under his bangs. Bright. One of his topmost hands points.

And the plainness sharpens into slyness as the two under 'em come up under that tuft of fluff on his chest. He stands up all the taller as they push it up, twice. A little double shake.

"...That or a trade-off for the other, ahh, assets that come with this bod!"

His voice is still pretty conversational - gleamin' and slick and patterin', from champagne to shot after shot of flavored whiskey - as those two hands turn inward together and undo the first button on his blazer. Then the second. Then the next, and peel it open. Extend at his sides to let it slip off his shoulders.

"Whatever," he says.

Whatevah.

His last two hands have come up to hook their thumbs into the hem of his hotpants. With two wiggles of his hips, he's gotten 'em loose - the tidiest, most cotton-candy escape artist routine - and falling to land on Husk's knees.

Angel doesn't fuckin' wear underwear, un-fuckin'-surprisingly. Husk's eyebrows raise. He looks 'im up and down in one quick vertical double-take pass. Then another.

...Left off on his face. Brow still lifted and eyes half-lidded from their low angle.

We gonna get on with it this time, or not?

Angel winks a saucy little wink.

"You know I still got plenty a' ways to have a good time," he says.


End file.
